


o something unprov'd

by fyborg23



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 15:53:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12214032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyborg23/pseuds/fyborg23
Summary: Some guys show up with theCalmost tattooed on their foreheads, radiatingintangibles. Roman shows up with theCsewn onto his sweater.





	o something unprov'd

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally incepted myself with my own prompt--  
> "so josi is now preds captain and i want to read Ultimate Pillow Prince josi applying all of the dubious leadership skills he’s learned from pekka and shea" --  
> and then some wonderful people cheerlead me into writing a little. is 8000+ words a little?
> 
> [title is from "one hour to madness and joy" by walt whitman.]

**1.**

Some guys show up with the _C_ almost tattooed on their foreheads, radiating _intangibles_. Roman shows up with the _C_ sewn onto his sweater.

Roman looks around the room, mentally tallying the guys who have seen him get fucked by _Shea_ (never ever Fisher, thank his dumb jesus–). Who have seen Roman almost gag himself on Shea’s cock, tears leaking out of his eyes and snot from his nose. It’s a lot more of the room than Roman’d like. He doesn’t bite his lip. Shea never bit his lip.

Some of them have even seen Pekka fuck Roman, pulling him up onto his knees before fucking Shea’s come out of his ass, cradling his balls with one huge hand and licking a slick stripe up Roman’s jaw before telling him how pretty he was. That doesn’t make Roman bite his lip. Pekka fucked Shea. Pekka fucks anyone who asks. Goalies get whatever they want.

Pekka clasps his hand on Roman’s arm, not the back of his neck. Somehow that feels important. Pekka talks easily about how he has faith that Roman’d be a good captain. Considerate of the boys. _Attentive,_ Pekka says, with that little sly smile Roman last saw when Saros called him daddy in front of cameras. Roman nods, wishes he teased his hair up higher this morning. Doesn’t matter. He’s big enough for this. Pekka finds the goalie coach wandering around and leaves Roman alone in favor of pestering the poor bastard.

Roman raises his eyebrow at Pekka’s easy stride-- his hip can’t be bothering him _today-_ – and goes around the room. He visits with his new assistant captains, looks them in the eye and thinks about which one could he fuck the way Shea fucked him. The way Pekka used to fuck Horny. Forsberg smirks to cover the softness around his eyes, and Roman grins sharply at him. They used to be a little closer a few trades ago. Roman knows he wouldn’t say no to him, watching Forsberg lick his lips.

Ellis seems _amused_ before drawling, “You do know we all voted on this.”

“Marketing,” Roman says. Ellis’ lip curls just a little, “PK looks better on posters now that you’re getting old,” and then smiles brightly. Roman makes himself smile back, like all of those jokes about his looks have never gotten under his skin, like he’s a captain who’s _reasonable_.

Shea almost got himself suspended fighting for Roman. He was barely a reasonable captain. Roman poses for the cameras, smiles and tells them what an honor it is to captain the Preds. It’s all true, and maybe Roman’s allowed to have a different leadership style than Shea. Or Pekka.

Roman looks over at Pekka tucking a loose curl behind Gaudreau’s ear.

Definitely different from Pekka. Roman carefully thinks _around_ how warm Pekka keeps his bed, even though he’s showed up in it enough times to lose track, those long limbs almost ravishing him, the smile getting sharper the closer Roman got to coming–

PK hums, “A little obvious, Jos.” PK looks back at Pekka. Roman doesn’t blush only because everyone knows what Carey Price is like. PK smiles at the reporters following them around, and drapes his arm casually around Roman, steering them just a little away from the cameras. Roman smooths the _C_ on his sweater, and says, “You should’ve gotten an A.”

“Not the C?” The smile PK gives him makes him squirm a little, and PK adds, “The suits here are a little more consistent than the suits in Montreal, eh?” He doesn’t break eye contact with Roman. Roman curls his fingers around PK’s arm, feeling out of his depth, “You’re a leader in the room–”

“Ever heard of too many cooks, Jos?” PK says, his smile not dimming one bit. Roman can figure out what it means, can appreciate how easy it is for PK to keep cool and _professional_ when he knows he’d have pouted a little if he was in PK’s place. Even though Roman knows he got voted in as captain by the entire team–

Try to get 20-odd hockey players to make good choices, though. Roman swallows. PK squeezes his shoulders, his thumbs pressing onto Roman’s collarbones. Roman’s very aware all of the sudden the sheer amount of strength training PK does over summers. He could bench press _two_ of Roman. It’s not fair how PK is better-dressed, more accomplished and more–

Roman wants to know how PK would treat him in bed. PK tugs him closer, his beard brushing against Roman’s cheek. “You’ve been in training for long enough. I know Shea was very.” PK pauses, a little meanly, " _Hard_ on his As."

PK knows. Of course he knows. He and Shea were on Team Canada during Sochi and probably had gold medal sex that they had to arm-wrestle over who got to top or whatever. Roman flushes anyways. PK looks at his mouth anyways. PK looks over his shoulder, and leans in closer, “Don’t try to captain _too_ hard. Can’t have the second-best D missing his dick.”

Roman says, “I think the best D could take over.”

PK has long eyelashes, Roman realizes stupidly as PK gives him a lingering look. Roman’s not the one with the Norris or the gold medals so it’s a surprise to see PK looking pleased. PK almost never looks pleased outside of the ten seconds right after scoring on a laser shot or winning in Boston. He shrugs, “I could, Jos. I think I could do it,” his lips quirk upwards, “But the boys have decided. Including Smitty. And you need to stop ripping off Shea.”

Roman blinks.

PK licks his lips, says slowly, “Be demanding. Mouthy.”

“Mouthy?” Roman mutters. PK laughs, “I’ve seen you on the other end of the ice, Josi. You can be a real bitch. Use it.” Roman swallows, nods at PK. PK gives him an ironic salute, and says, “Smitty’s going to offer his congrats, eh?”

Roman turns, and sees Smitty, his hair summer-long and a burn starting on his nose. Smitty still smirks at him the way he smirked at him the first time they met, the pretty soft Euro versus the ugly American. Roman still wants to smack the smirk off his face.

“Captain,” Smitty drawls. Roman’s seized with the urge to choke Smitty with his own cock, making Smitty’s spine yank straight up by pulling on that ridiculous hair–

Smitty licks his lips, “So. You think you can top?” No one would ask Pekka that. No one ever asked Shea.

Roman doesn’t answer. He steps closer, wishing Smitty was a few centimeters shorter, and brings out his meanest smile, the one that Yannick calls bitchy. This close, Roman can see a spot Smitty missed shaving, a little shadow right where his jaw begins, and presses his thumb there to feel the rough stubble. Smitty swallows, staring straight at Roman’s ear. Smitty’s hair is smooth underneath Roman’s fingers, and that smirk fades as soon as Roman whispers, “You going to play for the name on front?”

Shea used to say that. Maybe Smitty heard it more than some others Roman can name. Shea only disciplined his _A_ s in front of everyone else. No telling who he did behind closed doors. Either way, Smitty flushes underneath his sunburn, his cock tenting the front of his shorts as he tries not to squirm away from Roman’s hand in his hair. Roman tightens his grip, feeling those soft hairs slip out of his fist, “You know what you can do in that little bathroom, _Craig_.”

Smitty blinks at him, doesn’t say anything but a _yes, captain_. Roman knows he’ll show up. Smitty hates to lose, to be the first one to jerk away when playing chicken. Even right up to putting his mouth on cocks. Roman adjusts himself through his jeans thinking about how clumsy Smitty would be around his cock, finally _quieter_ for once.

Closing the restroom door behind him and Smitty isn’t as thrilling as getting to see him shift from knee to knee, like Roman used to when Shea made him suck him off on the logo. Smitty’s trying to look relaxed, like he and Roman are actually buddies instead of teammates. Roman leans against the door. Smitty straightens up, still kneeling, and blinks as slowly as he blushes when he realizes he has to knee-walk to Roman.

Roman can keep from smirking _too_ much when Smitty slumps against his thighs. He strokes Smitty’s hair, and Smitty grits out, “Just get your cock out.” Roman glances at the flushed tips of Smitty’s ears before he drawls, “How about you get me taken care of?”

Smitty’s eyes flashes up at him. Roman scrapes his nail along Smitty’s ear, making him shudder before he angrily unbuckles Roman’s pants, cupping and lifting his cock through them as much as he can. Roman likes the rough touches, lets Smitty draw whatever conclusions he can manage underneath that fluffy hair. Captains don’t have to answer to the boys _every_ time. Smitty almost can wipe all of the sneer off his face when he discovers that Roman’s wearing a tight brief. Almost.

Roman presses his cock against Smitty’s mouth, teasing both of them, feeling Smitty part his lips through the thin cloth before he pulls Roman’s underwear down. Smitty rubs at Roman’s foreskin, almost says something but instead sucks Roman down in careful motions. Smitty strains around him, his hands rubbing up and down the bunched up legs of Roman’s pants, his tongue flat and his lips sucking around the tip like this is the only practice Smitty gets–

He gets hard in Smitty’s mouth. He’s not _dead_. Neither is Smitty, rubbing the heel of his palm over his own cock as he tries to breathe around Roman’s, never getting any further than the tip and the slip and slide of his foreskin. Smitty’s messy, doesn’t move his tongue, barely knows how hard to suck, and Roman’s hard because Smitty is sucking him off thanks to the _C_ on his sweater.

Roman’s cock twitches out precome, making Smitty shudder. Smitty’s trying so hard not to look like he could actually be good at sucking cock. He could be, if Roman caught Smitty in enough bad moods, trained him towards sweetness like Shea did with Roman, gagging Roman until snot came out of his nose and still throat-fucking him until he pulled off to come on his face–

Smitty could only look better with come on his face and that deep-red flush that would scream to everyone how much and how long he had to choke before he made his captain happy. Smitty half-gags, half-moans, his fingers digging into Roman’s thighs because why won’t Roman fucking come already?

Roman shoves Smitty back. Smitty scrambles to keep his back from hitting the tile floor, panting as he looks at Roman’s cock, at Roman’s face, and he looks like he’s torn between wanting to get back on his knees to suck Roman off again and wanting to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. Roman tucks his still-hard cock into his underwear, and slips his pants back up. Smitty swallows, his chest heaving like he’s got a bosom.

“E for effort, Smitty,” Roman says softly. Smitty’s lips are pressed tight against _noise_ , his eyes too bright and shiny for Roman to want to linger too long. Captains are supposed to be gracious. He nods at Smitty, and carefully closes the bathroom door behind him.

Hartnell gives him a slightly beady look across the crowded room as soon as Roman steps out. Roman raises his eyebrows in question, and Hartnell jerks his eyes back to his crackers and cheese. Hartnell was never under Shea’s leadership-- they never overlapped the first time Hartnell was on the Preds. Though, _everyone_ has heard all of those rumors about the Flyers plus a bit of truth. Pity about those Jackets being boner-killers. Roman shrugs. Hartnell’s old enough to not need his hand-- or cock-- held. He’s not his problem.

Roman checks on Kev, who is his not-quite problem. The Swiss contingent have to stick together, eh? Kev glares at Roman for using his nickname, hissing through his teeth like a puppy, “Jos!”

Roman curls his arm over Kev’s shoulders, says, “How’s the leg?”

Kev shoots Roman a raised eyebrow, “You opened all of my snapchats. Even–” he licks his soft lips, " _those_." Roman did. He didn’t save all of them, as a favor to Kev. Roman strokes Kev’s shirt collar, says, “Yes. And I’m asking, are you ready?”

Kev says a _yes_ with those big brown eyes, like a puppy. Even though they’re almost even in height, he keeps hunching himself smaller next to Roman. Roman keeps noting the bulk he’s packed on, the slightly more Americanized pants he’s sporting, the camo jacket almost ridiculous on his new frame. He’s sending every message he can to the suits that he doesn’t want to ever go back to Milwaukee. Roman doesn’t want Kevin Fiala to go back either.

Mostly because Kev’s ass is a pleasure to fuck and he’s so easy to make come and he makes those noises every time Roman plays with his cock that should mean Kev jerked off with a poster of _him_ on the wall even though Roman thinks no one sells that sort of poster anymore. Roman feels a little wild every time he thinks about pushing his cock into Kev. Roman grins at Kev, says, “Good. Need a few more goals now that Neal’s gone.”

Kev flushes lightly, flexes his arms against his jacket, “So–” his eyes flick over to Smitty and his mussed hair, “Had fun?” He sounds nervous, maybe a little jealous, and Roman hates _knowing_ he used to be that transparent once. Roman curls his lips up, “Not too much fun, Fifi,” and smiles when he sees reporters perking up at that nickname.

What fun is there in having a former rookie if you can’t fuck with them? Roman waves at the press pool and lets Kev run away with him. There’s only so much excitement in pre-season hockey even when the Preds came so cunting close to _winning_ only a few months ago, and the reporters are well-behaved in Nashville compared to say, Montreal. Kev heaves out a heavy sigh when the elevator doors close on them, punches the button for the players’ lounge, then glares at Roman.

“You prick,” Kev says lightly in Swiss German, “you did that on purpose.”

Roman leers back in the same language because they’re alone for _now_ , “Better than Icy-hot to the balls, Fifi.” Kev winces, shimmies in his pants at the memory of Yannick doing it, but that’s mostly because Yannick was pretending to massage him and didn’t bother to help him out when Kev popped wood. His whimpers were very entertaining.

Kev leans back against the back of the elevator railing, smirks, “So when do I get mine?” Roman raises an eyebrow, conscious of the domed camera in one corner of the elevator car. Kev looks at Roman from under his eyelashes, “Yannick says you’ll be too busy trying to captain with your dick–”

“Yannick is a mean bitch,” Roman snorts. Shea never tried to go around fucking everyone. Pekka does, but goalies are goalies and goalies do whatever they will. Shea mostly just ripped off speeches from movies when he had to give a pep talk when glaring didn’t work. Roman thinks he won’t have to recycle. Ok, hopes. Kev bites his lip as the elevator doors slide open.

The players’ lounge doesn’t have cameras. Enough people go in and out of the room that there’s no real need for them, and boys will be boys, eh. Even when it comes to boys doing boys, Roman thinks with a vicious smile as he opens the door and lets them both in. Kev looks at the worn-down couch, points and sneers, “You aren’t fucking me on that–”

Roman presses Kev up against the row of windows lining the wall facing the hallways, smoothing his fingers over Kev’s jacket, “No, I’m not.”

Kev taps the glass behind him, a flush creeping up his neck and says, " _Here_?" half-shocked and half-grinding against Roman’s thigh, squirming just like a puppy.

Roman pets Kev’s neck, says in English, “Unless you don’t want to.” Kev licks his lips, glancing sideways, his breath picking up, and he grins. Roman curls his hand around Kev’s cock, hard underneath those GM-approved jeans, watching him rubbing himself off against his hand, and _squeezes_. Kev stiffens. His pretty mouth opens in a well-practiced _O_.

Roman scrapes his mouth across his smooth jaw, whispers, “You’d be more convincing if you came on my cock.” Roman takes in Kev’s eyes as they dart across his, and breathes a little easier when Kev moans instead of asking why.

Watching Kev turn to face the glass, his pants unbuckled enough to bare his biteable ass, makes Roman actually _sympathize_ with Shea for once. He’s never wanted to be meaner than he had to be with Kev, and looking at him like _this_ , waiting and good, is almost too much. He wants to feel Kev sobbing around his cock and it’s not the first time he’s had the thought but it’s the first time Kev wasn’t a brat _first_. Roman eases his fingers into Kev’s cleft, almost moaning when he finds Kev slightly puffy and over-hot, like Yannick had a turn, like someone else got to bend Kev over and fuck those noises out of him. Roman presses his fingertip against the clench of Kev’s rim, still slick with lube, “Did you have too much fun, Fifi?”

The back of Kev’s neck turns brick red, the same red Roman gets to see every time he fucks him. Roman pets it on impulse, making him shudder and fog up the glass underneath his face. Roman strokes the edges of his hair, “Can’t take too much on,” and spreads one ass cheek out enough for him to watch Kev clutch around his fingers. Roman presses his finger in slowly, and grins when Kev presses back against him, snarling, “Just fuck me–”

Roman wants to kiss Kev. So he does. Tells him to not smear the glass too much as he slips his free hand over Kev’s cock, slick with precome already. He laughs when Kev jerks against him, maybe a little meanly, and he strokes his thumb across the firm tip of Kev’s cock, thinking about teasing him, winding him up and wanting a beard to mark him up with.

Kev’s hands pound against the glass, the faint traces of his fingerprints showing up already, and he clenches around Roman, “Come on, you know I’m ready–”

Roman shoves another finger in him and knocks out a soft whine, his own cock twitching just as much as Kev’s cock twitches underneath his palm. The noise of Kev’s cruelly-trimmed nails scrabbling against the glass is loud enough to make someone about to come into the hallway go the _other_ direction. Roman slides to one knee, licking his lips as he presses his thumbs on Kev’s ass and watches his asshole twitch. He knows he’s being nice. He needs to be nice. He strokes Kev’s hip, kisses the pale tan line at the top of his ass before he presses his teeth against the firm muscle.

“Fuck,” Kev whimpers, his legs sliding apart underneath the strain of his jeans. Roman licks up his cleft, sucks on one side long enough for him to squirm and fight against begging for more, tasting the tacky combination of lube and condoms. He hums. Kev tastes like he’s been ridden hard, like people know he could be a good captain’s pet. Roman digs his nails into Kev’s tender skin and licks harder, presses his tongue in deeper.

Roman’s come this far. Maybe he deserves to have a pet, to have Kev bent against the glass and whimpering around his mouth. Kev can’t keep quiet to save his life, and the rest of the boys are going to come around and watch him get fucked by Roman–

He can’t wait. Roman presses in a spit-slick finger, stretching Kev’s rim enough to make him scream. Roman pets Kev’s cock soothingly, “I’m getting you ready, müsli.” Kev reaches back, the tips of his fingers bumping against Roman’s face, snarling, “Get me ready faster.”

Roman smirks against Kev’s ass. He presses in another finger, too dry and too fast and yet Kev keeps making those noises every time he licks around his fingers and tests the stretch of Kev’s asshole around them with the tip of his tongue. Kev keeps hitting the glass with his hands, and they’re going to have an audience if they don’t have one _already_. Roman spits on Kev’s asshole, smearing his spit against the sticky scrapes of lube, watching Kev shiver around him before he presses his mouth back again, scraping the flat of his tongue against the easy curl of that hole, sucking at the skin around it.

Roman really wishes he could grow a beard right about now.

Kev presses back against his face, rubbing himself off against his chin, “Jos!”

Roman twists his fingers in, breathes, “I don’t know, I don’t want to wreck you.” Which is a lie as big and fat as Shea’s cock; who’s counting? Roman gets up onto his feet carefully, looking at the way Kev’s trying not to show him how into being showed off he is, his hips shifting enough for Roman to only see a glimpse of his hard cock and nothing more. He takes his cock in between his fingers and rubs the tip against Kev’s asshole, teasing both of them.

He doesn’t wait for Kev to whine before he thrusts into him. Roman hisses through his teeth at how easily Kev clutches around him, and thrusts into him again, sucking an oval mark on the back of his sweaty neck. The glass squeaks underneath Kev’s fingers. Roman breathes against his neck, working his hips in a tight little rhythm, “Sweetie–”

Kev clenches down, “Shut up.” Roman fucks him harder, feeling how tender he is around his cock, and holding his breath to keep from saying even more obscene things about who must’ve used Kev, about how they must’ve made him cry and how Roman wants to see him sob because he has the mouth for it. The glass keeps fogging up. Kev licks his lips, and bends over just enough for him to stifle a moan as Roman shifts inside him. Kev still feels tight, _good_.

Roman’s hands itch to knot a fist into his hair and hold him up against the glass as he fucks even more noise out of him.

So he does, pressing Kev’s face flat against the window and pushing himself in deeper. Kev’s flushed, panting, and Roman only glances at the pink cock curving up between Kev’s thighs, doesn’t even think about giving him a reach-around because Kev keeps trying to ride him, keeps trying to make it smooth. Roman doesn’t want that, wants to bite him and leave him crying and maybe thinks too much about Shea doing the same thing to him because his cock’s so hard he can almost taste the blood between his teeth.

Kev shouts as Roman claws his hips, his mouth leaving a smear on the glass, “Jos.” The light’s good enough that Roman can tell the wetness on his cheek isn’t from sweat. Roman strokes Kev’s side, says, “You’re so good,” and that makes him tighter just like it always does. He could love this feeling of being in control, of making people whimper and clench around him and he doesn’t want to come before Kev does–

The back door opens with a soft _click_. Roman glances over his shoulder. He bites his lip at seeing Pekka, his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel and watching both of them. Pekka winks before he steps closer, and Kev shudders when he realizes they aren’t alone. Pekka strokes Kev’s hair, scrapes his ear with a manicured thumbnail, “You’ll come on his pretty cock, won’t you, _Fifi_?”

Roman fucks in, teasing both of them with his cock, his fingers leaving bruises on Kev’s hips as he pushes in. Pekka licks his lips, “Roman feels so good inside you, doesn’t he?” The pained moan Kev gives up makes Pekka show even more of his teeth. Pekka smells like a fucking good screw, maybe he gave PK a little consolation. Roman can barely focus on Kev’s ass, on hitting his prostate just right, just thinking about what else his boys could need.

Kev still stiffens and comes against the mustard-gold wall, his forehead pressed against the glass. He’s flushed, shaking underneath his camo jacket and Roman keeps fucking into him. Pekka brushes his fingers against Kev, wraps his hand around him, strokes out more come out of Kev.

Pekka’s getting the wall dirty. Kev whines, and Pekka kisses the whine out of him, making little shushing noises that makes Roman think about how much more experience Pekka has in ass-fucking pretty boys. Roman swallows.

Pekka looks Roman in the eye as he licks his own hand clean. Kev shudders between both of them. Pekka pets his hair, “You’re a good boy,” almost _tender_ with Kev like he accidentally did the math between his age and Kev’s. He leans in to kiss Roman, and Roman can taste Kev’s come in Pekka’s mouth, fuck, no wonder Shea liked sharing him with Pekka–

Pekka gives him a secretive smile, and says, “Fifi’s a little oversensitive after this morning, Jos.”

Roman smirks as Kev flushes from head to toe, and says, “So he _did_ have too much fun.” He keeps fucking Kev like he’s using his asshole to jerk off, fast and easy, and comes just like a man who’s been wound up and overpowered for _hours_ , grinding his hips against him with a little sigh. Roman wants to kiss him.

Instead, he eases out of Kev, who looks just like he’s been held up against a glass panel and fucked raw, dripping his come, a red spot high on his cheek and his pants down around his knees. Roman says to Pekka over him, “But maybe you didn’t have _enough_ fun, Pekks.”

That makes Pekka lick his lips. Roman strokes his spent cock, watching Pekka watch him. Kev yanks his pants up, squirming on his feet. He swallows, and looks at Roman, looking like he has something to say but maybe not in _English_.

Pekka folds his arms over his chest, says, “Be good, Fifi.” He nods towards the door, and Kev shoots Roman a confused look before he leaves. Pekka smiles. It’s not a very nice smile. Roman leans against the glass. His pants are still undone. He’s not doing them up.

“Impressive show, Jos.” Pekka doesn’t loom on purpose. He just happens to be over two meters tall.

Roman presses his hand flat against the wall, “Thank you.” His mouth’s sour with come and tension, and he says, “Please tell me Shea had his, ah, issues. When he first got the _C_.”

“Some. He’s a grumpy son of a bitch, you know–” Pekka snorts, “At least you know what it’s like to be on top. And you don’t get too jealous.” Roman flushes. Pekka gently pulls Roman’s pants up, tucks him into his underwear, “And Shea never got zoomed on in like you did.” Roman jerks his eyes up into Pekka’s, and Pekka says, “I have two eyes, _Roman_. I get paid a lot of money to use them, even.”

Roman grits his teeth, sighing. Pekka raises his hands in a gentling gesture, “You don’t have to put on that show every time. Put on a different show. Fifi looks up to you.” Pekka pauses, smiles, “You’re too foxy to be a good bear, anyways.”

“Thanks,” Roman says flatly, suppressing a smirk. Pekka kisses Roman on the cheek, “Too bad that Lidström bastard beat you to becoming the first Euro captain to win a cup before you were even a twink in our eyes, hm? Call Shea before you get too…nostalgic.”

Roman nods, and Pekka kisses him on the other cheek right before he leers and swats his ass. Roman shoves him off with a annoyed groan and goes to the closest restroom to clean up.

He has a team to captain.

**2.**

Shea answers on the first ring. Roman presses his forehead flat against the large refrigerator in his very nice, very new house. He sighs, “Did Pekka tip you off?”

Roman hears Shea give up a little breathy laugh, that one that he used to work so hard for, before he says, “Goalies are pretty good as spies. Congrats on the _C_. Knew you could step up, Jos.”

The kitchen is big enough for twenty people plus all their plus-ones. Roman bought the house for it, and he stares at the soapstone counters, tracing a dark vein with his free hand before he says, “Thanks.”

Shea sighs down the connection, “It’s probably late for me to be sorry for being mean to you and I don’t know if I’m that sorry.”

Roman swallows, “You did go a little crazy that summer. And fall.” He doesn’t want to make excuses for Shea. They just happened to play beautiful hockey for a few years in between Shea choking him on his cock and rewriting what Roman liked in bed and out–

“Not really an excuse. Even if you are really pretty,” Shea says lightly. “First day of school go ok?”

“Fuck you, Webs,” Roman huffs. “I almost made a chew toy out of Fifi–”

“Fifi?”

“Fiala, you know, Swiss, pouty–” He waves his hand in mid-air, almost seeing the enormous grin on that square face.

“Yes, that mini-you. Go on. What else did your captain-ly cock do?”

Roman rubs his forehead, “I fucked Smitty’s mouth.” Shit, it sounds even worse _out_ loud. Shea cackles, “Jeez. Couldn’t you have made nice with PK? From what Corey tells me it’d be a lot hotter–”

“Corey? _Carey_ Price?” Roman hisses, “You’re such a butthead.”

“I know.” Shea clears his throat, “I, um, basically got lucky with the _C_ and getting into punch-ups. Break _one_ cheekbone, people think you’re a real sonva-- fuck. You’re,” he pauses, “More PR-friendly. New school. Shit like that. But you really should make good friends with PK.”

Roman does not brain himself on the countertop because concussions are no fun. He breathes out through his nose, “PK would arm-wrestle me for the _C_ and he’d deserve to win. So has your _Corey_ shared with you any good PK stories?” The snort in his ear almost shorts out his phone.

Shea rumbles, “Carey’s way more jealous than I am. Also if you guys do wrestle, please send me the tape, I think you two would look hot together even if you’re getting your tight little ass kicked.” There’s a pause, a comfortable one. “You’re pretty, Roman, and PK likes pretty things.”

“I’m not making a sex tape,” Roman says just before Shea hangs up. The beep thrills in Roman’s ears, and he grimaces at his phone screen. Shea’s such a fucking drama baby. Always with the last word.

Roman sits on his 100-dollar breakfast stool and thinks about how to invite PK over. They’re teammates, not buddies-- and even though he shoots left and PK shoots right, they almost never get paired together. Something about not bunching up their skill on one pairing. Roman’s going to have to fucking invite him over and it’d be obvious why. Even if Roman invited over the Ds as like some defensive brain-trust, hah–-

Screw it. He’s the captain. If Shea could pick out one of the Ds and raw him in front of the entire team, Roman can text PK to come over and they could have some coffee or whatever and he’s swallowing at what could happen _next_ because how does PK like pretty things?

Roman has only Nescafe. He texts PK anyway. They’re busy having their pictures taken, pre-season usual cruft. PK manages to find an empty space-- on an off-day-- and says, _penciled you in jos_ with a sunglasses emoji at the end.

Roman puts down his phone feeling like he just went 100 kph. His house is big, new, and clean. He still screams a little into a throw pillow.

**3.**

PK’s wearing a black-and-white sweater. Roman’s wearing a black-and-white sweater. PK grins, “See, we’re coordinating already, Jos.” He looks around Roman’s house as he slips his shoes off, “Going for the Versailles look?”

Roman bites his tongue, “Less head chopping, I hope.” PK chokes on a laugh, his eyes crinkling. The Versailles insult isn’t even new, and besides, the very expensive designer Nathalie suggested picked out the faux-French country look because it would bring out the “bones” of the house. This would usually have been the point where Roman pointed out that houses didn’t have bones and English was a stupid language but the designer was charging $400 per hour for the decorating work. PK takes this in with suppressed amusement, following Roman to the kitchen.

Roman turns on his heel, leans against the countertop, clears his throat, “So, ehm.”

He’s a little mortified to realize at age 27 he’s never had to seduce anyone. People throw themselves at him. Shea just pushed Roman up against the tiles in the showers the first time they fucked, muttering, “You wanna?” with a hand on his cock. Stupid Yannick had taunted him into sucking his cock and he doesn’t even know if Fifi even got seduced as much as he threw himself at Roman, and outside hockey-- Roman’s not hideous. There are photosets centered around how not hideous he is.

PK has money, power, and a better tailor.

Roman could make coffee. Making coffee isn’t his thing. He sits down across PK at the countertop instead. PK seems to be ok with letting Roman squirm, watching him try to bring _this_ up before he starts casually poking at his phone. Roman swivels back and forth on the stool, pressing his hands flat, “Would you want the _C_?”

PK looks up from his phone, “You do know I would have been happier with the _C_ in _Montreal_ , Josi. Although if you’re freaking out about having to be captain…” he shows his teeth, “It’s a little late now. And Smitty would be so disappointed.”

“Fuck,” Roman says to the countertop’s matte surface. PK hums, “Yes, imagine having to give a bj to your new captain and not even getting him to finish–” He stops, leaving the rest of the chirp felt. Roman swallows, “Smitty has a big mouth.”

“Are you hoping I have a big mouth?” PK says, looking like he’d be interested in the answer. That shouldn’t sound as hot as it does and yet Roman looks at the softness of PK’s lips while he mocks him, “Because as much as I’d like to see you rub your hands over this countertop-- is this soapstone?”

“Yes.”

“Good choice. I had to squeeze _you_ into my schedule. So either seduce me or we can talk about how you need to rethink your hairline.” Roman automatically puts his hand up to his hair, and PK leans forward, “You’re getting a little old to coast on your looks.”

Roman’s eyes snap up. PK presses his tongue between his teeth, looking straight at him. This is the PK Roman used to dread going up against before the Trade, the chirpy, chippy #76 who knew your softest spot and shot straight at it. He’s also the PK Roman shares the room with. Roman slips around the countertop, standing next to PK. PK turns towards Roman, his hands folded flat on the countertop, a familiar glint in his eyes. The sunlight catches his long eyelashes, the faint threads of gold in his button-up shirt.

Roman presses his hand over PK’s folded hands. He rubs his thumb over the sturdy lines of his knuckles, makes himself grin, “I can still coast on my blowjob skills, Subban.” PK hums, turns his hand up to rub in between Roman’s fingers, “This explains a little more than I wanted to know about Weber.”

“Shea Weber?” Roman asks.

PK squints his eyes a little, “What other Weber is there–” he creases his forehead as he raises his eyebrows, “You’re also fucking _Yannick_? What.”

Roman breathes out through his nose, feeling a little panicky as he mutters, “We go back.”

PK smirks, “I think he’s the one going _back_.”

“Shit, don’t get me started,” Roman mutters, “He’s already said crap about how good it’d feel to get blown by a captain–” He scrubs his face. Yannick has way too much ammunition to hit Roman with. Most of the Preds do. Stay on a team long enough, and anyone could figure out who snores, jacks off, and sleeps around.

PK slides his hand through Roman’s hair, petting the curls starting to break free from the thin shellac of gel, “How about you just suck me off?”

Roman’s cheeks heat, not knowing whether to lean in to kiss the smirk off PK’s face or to make PK kiss him first. He restrains himself from asking if PK feels seduced enough _yet_ , and slides his hand up PK’s thigh, curving his palm over his cock and smiles dangerously at him instead, leaning into his hold, “Bed? Couch? Here?”

PK chooses the bed. Roman mentally cellys for having his sheets washed this week. Once again, PK looks around the large bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt with one hand while Roman undresses embarrassingly fast. Roman hopes PK’s busy paying attention to him taking his clothes off and not making any more dumb-ass mental comparisons to Versailles. PK doesn’t get on the bed. Roman does, lying naked on the sheets, looking up at PK’s thighs before he meets his eyes. PK strokes Roman’s mouth, “It’s a good thing you’re pretty.”

“Hm?” Roman says, his words muffled by those manicured fingers. PK presses one knee on the edge of the mattress, close enough for Roman to touch, “Undressing for fun means you can _touch_ , or did Weber not try to impress your… lovely self?”

Roman squirms on the sheets, not wanting to answer the question, “Just let me suck you off, please–” PK bites his own lip, breathing a little hard. He doesn’t say anything otherwise, waiting for Roman to pick up the fucking pace.

Roman presses PK’s fingers to his mouth, “Isn’t this what you wanted to see me be? _Mouthy_?” leering up at him. He can see PK’s eyes narrow around the edges, so slightly that if he hadn’t been paying attention he’d have missed it. Just because PK wears a broad smile doesn’t mean he any _harder_ tendencies, and Roman’s teased enough people to know when they want to fuck his mouth so hard he can’t breathe. He’s looking forward to it, with PK.

Roman curls his hand around PK’s arm, picking the next most obvious observation, “You’ve seen Shea in the showers. He only gets bigger.”

PK strokes himself, “Do you usually talk about the people you’ve fucked with the ones you want to fuck?” still mocking Roman, pressing the edge of his nail against the curve of his hip like he wants to do more than just touch himself.

Roman smiles sharply, “They usually want to know.” PK shoves Roman back against the sheets, his beard rubbing against Roman’s chin, “Another tip, Josi. People like their tires pumped.”

“How many times did you have to pump Price’s tires?” Roman flutters his eyelashes, scrapping his mouth against PK’s heavy jaw, “Tell him he was a good cowboy? Ooh and ah over the size of his hands? His cock? I could tell you you’re thick. Very handsome. Better-dressed than me-–”

“Even naked?” PK strokes Roman’s cock, like Roman’s on the verge of coming up with the right answer, making him choke. Roman moans, “Especially then.”

The bed isn’t big enough for both of them. All Roman can think about is PK touching him, his smooth hands playing with his balls, kissing his jaw like they’re actually buddies. Roman tries to touch back, brushing the back of his hand against PK’s sturdy abs, spreading his legs wide to rub off against PK’s half-hard cock–-

PK leans back on his knees, still on the edge of the bed. He looks down at Roman blushing and panting on the sheets, Roman’s cock pointed straight up at him, and he presses his thigh right in between Roman’s legs, “I think you could be mouthier, sweetie.” Roman bites his lip, “Just let me suck you, fuck,” pushing himself up on his elbows only to be pushed back down. He turns onto his side, looking up at PK, “I’m pretty good at deepthroating–”

PK grins, “Are you.”

Roman glares at him. PK leans closer, his hand tangling in Roman’s hair, “I don’t know, Jos. I’m not feeling very seduced.” Roman rolls his eyes, “Do you need kisses or ropes, because I think that curtain pull could–”

He hisses when PK pinches his nipples, rubbing them as he says, “What’s with pretty boys having little nipples.” Before Roman can retort, PK kisses him, tugging a little on his lower lip. Roman licks the blood-hot inside of his mouth, hitching his thighs around PK’s hips, and kisses back. PK has soft lips. Roman squeezes up, his fingers finding PK’s nipples, and he keeps cupping them, trying to get himself even closer. His teeth scrape against PK’s chin on an exhale.

PK strokes his throat, “Easy.”

Roman doesn’t want to take it easy. Every part of him is straining to do more, to impress PK, to make him fuck him up because he misses getting put down and held there by any means necessary. He pushes against PK, muscling him flat on his back and pants, “Either I blow you or you won’t come today, Subban.”

“Is that an order, captain?” PK says, licking his lips, his eyes shiny with something neither of them wants to to name. PK rolls his hips up, brushing his cock against Roman, _that_ much harder than he was only seconds ago. Roman presses his hands over PK’s wrists, “Do I have to make it one?”

Silence falls. Roman bares his teeth, slipping down PK’s chest to dig his fingers into his heavy sides. PK hisses, but his cock twitches even more against Roman’s arm when Roman looks up. Roman smiles, nibbles around the curve of PK’s hip before he pauses over the thick curve of his cock. PK flexes, breathing hard, his hands pressed flat against Roman’s shoulders. Roman sucks hard on PK’s inner thigh, almost wishing he could see the bruise that’ll come up tomorrow, pressing his achingly-hard cock against the sheets at the strangled noise PK makes.

Sucking cock always gets Roman hot, and PK’s responsive as fuck even when trying not to move. Roman licks up the smooth underside of PK’s cock, pressing it back gently to suck at his balls–

“Jesus, Jos–” PK moans, petting Roman’s hair, and it’s so easy for Roman then, to rub his cheek along his cock, to _tease_ , and he can feel PK straining to look at what’s Roman doing between his legs. Roman drags the flat of his tongue up against PK’s cockhead, making PK leak precome. Roman sucks, feeling how thick PK would be in his throat, how well PK takes care of himself. Roman doesn’t want to wait, wants to sink deeper onto PK’s cock and feel his nose press flat against PK’s dense curls.

Instead Roman leans back on his knees, stroking his swollen lips, letting PK look at how messy Roman’s getting himself, his cock swaying in between his thighs. PK rubs his hand down his thigh, grins breathly, “Fuck, maybe you could coast a little more on your face.”

Roman curls his hands over PK’s thighs, his thumbs pressed up against his balls, “Yeah? You’re not just saying that to get your beautiful cock in my mouth?” PK makes an considering hum. Roman licks his cock-dirty lips and sucks PK down.

PK moans louder, his hands slipping over Roman’s shoulder as he twitches across Roman’s tongue. Roman bobs his head, stroking PK with his mouth, sucking softly. He exhales hotly against PK’s curls, and he can smell how heated PK is, how much he wants to shove Roman’s head down and fuck his face until he’s hoarse with need. PK doesn’t. He’s so–

 _Patient_.

Roman eases his fingers up against his mouth, feeling himself drool even more around PK’s cock. He’s happy PK can’t quite see him this pink, and he sucks his spit off him, the noises _rude_ enough to make his own cock twitch. Roman pushes himself back down, the angle not quite right to deep-throat, swallowing around PK anyways. He rubs his hips against the bed, moaning when PK pushes too far into his mouth, his fingers squeezing around PK’s hip. PK inhales swiftly, pushing back in, “Please.”

Moaning around PK’s cock doesn’t stop Roman from humping the sheets. PK digs his nails in against Roman’s shoulders, “Fuck, god, your mouth, you feel so good, gh–” pumping against his lips before coming on his tongue, lips, chin. Roman slurps around PK, smearing come across his half-numb mouth, sucking him clean, his chest burning from not _enough_ air.

He sways up to his knees unsteadily, his cock almost _throbbing_ as he presses himself up. PK rubs his thumb over Roman’s face, sucking on his own lip before he presses his mouth to Roman’s. Roman shivers at the careful kiss, like PK knows what it’s like to have his mouth fucked hard too. He doesn’t want to feel soft and liquid when PK tells him he’s a good cocksucker, and covers it with a leer, “I told you.”

PK bites carefully over Roman’s throat, “So you did. _Captain_ ,” making Roman’s cock flex. PK curls his hand over Roman’s hip, “I think you need a good pounding.”

“Yeah?” Roman can see it, PK pressing him flat on the bed, their skin contrasting against the slate blue sheets as PK slides into him. PK licks at a stray bead of come on Roman’s neck, bites him again, not hard enough to leave a mark on him.

Roman used to show up to practices covered in beard burn. He wants that again. PK pulls Roman closer, his hand sliding down his back, “I’m not leaving you too sore to skate.” He laughs a little at Roman’s muffled annoyance, “Come on, you’re still getting pounded,” pressing his fingers against Roman’s asshole, “you fucking pillow pr–”

“You better use prince,” Roman drawls. PK rubs his finger, “Hm,” not finishing his sentence. Roman rubs his cock against PK’s spent one, pants, “So how are you pounding me with this?”

PK presses his fingertip in, feeling Roman’s asshole clutch at it, “Other ways to pound pretty _princes_ than with dicks, Jos,” rubbing a little further in, teasing him open, “You should work a little harder, anyways.”

Roman flushes, shaking as PK brushes the pad of his thumb against his rim, “Fuck you.” He still presses back against PK’s hand, “Come on. Lube’s in the nightstand. You know how to use it.” PK strokes Roman’s cock slow and tight before looking at him and getting the fucking lube. Roman doesn’t thump his head against the pillows. PK warms up the lube between his hands, and Roman allows himself to think about how Shea never did, how Shea was almost constantly in a hurry to cram himself into him–

PK slips two slick fingers up Roman, hot and thick. Sweat breaks out on Roman’s chest, and PK strokes his fluttering abs, “Been a while?” watching his cock jump against his abs and not touching it.

A dull ache twinges in Roman’s gut. He wants to move until it turns to real pleasure, until he can convince PK to slip in another finger and watch him ride his hand, come while PK watches him like a good hockey play. Roman clenches around PK, “Fuck me.”

PK laughs, curls his fingers inside Roman’s ass, holding his thighs wide as he twist them. Roman’s hyper-aware of being watched, PK looking at his mouth and his asshole, but PK skims over his prostate and Roman chokes. PK rubs his finger over that spot again, the burn and the overload making Roman throw his arm over his face.

PK kisses him on a thrust. Roman gasps, pushes back against PK’s fingers, and PK keeps screwing his fingers in, watching Roman loosen up around them. Roman wants _more_ , wants PK to finger-fuck him like he means it, the sweetness too much for him to bear.

“Fuck me faster,” Roman snarls, twisting his hips. PK presses Roman down, breathes, “And maybe you can take this,” pushing his fingers in and out slowly, feeling Roman squeeze around them. He sucks carefully at Roman’s slick cock. The heat inside Roman winds up tighter, tenser, and he curses in German. Roman’s so open, so exposed, and he moans when PK spreads three fingers inside him, teasing his prostate and making his cock spurt more–

Roman clenches around PK, a wild smile on his face, “Yeah,” urging him on with hard rolls of his hips, his face on fire as he fucks himself on those fingers. PK scrapes a palm over Roman’s chest, his nails catching on a nipple, “So good,” stroking his stretched-out rim with a dry thumb and sharing breaths with Roman, almost kissing him, almost _affectionate_. Roman’s thighs shake around PK. He wants to come, wants PK’s fingers in him forever, wants to touch him and thank him and taste him and–

Roman sobs as he comes with a hard clench. He sobs more when PK sighs and scrapes his fingertips across Roman’s prostate, stroking his spent cock and only just taunting a little when he says, “Nothing like fucking a captain.”

The kiss makes Roman sigh back. He’s fucked out-- _duh-_ – and he doesn’t have enough English to snark at PK for using an handkerchief to wipe his fingers off. He just raises his eyebrow, propping up his neck with one arm. PK focuses on his fingers, "It’s functional, ok? "

“Hm.” Roman is going to remember that PK Subban uses an handkerchief. For sure. He curls towards PK, pressing his mouth against his arm.

PK smiles, a small one, and lies back against Roman.

**4.**

The _C_ is still sewn on Roman’s sweater.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr!](http://hastybooks.tumblr.com)


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